


in this valley of dying stars

by ArgentNoelle



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Horror, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-28
Updated: 2014-05-28
Packaged: 2018-01-26 21:30:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1703237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArgentNoelle/pseuds/ArgentNoelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>... In this hollow valley<br/>This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms ...</p>
<p>(The Hollow Men, T.S. Eliot)</p>
<p>"What now?" Loki asked, looking up at Thor. "Are you going to kill me yourself?"<br/>[Thanos controls the Nine Realms. Post-TDW AU.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	in this valley of dying stars

He had been gaunt, corded muscles tight under thick furs, eyes hollowed and feverish, when they finally dragged him in, biting, scratching, the evidence of numerous spells on the five warriors holding him down, the burnished collar around his neck gleaming dully in the room, and Thor felt sick, watching, face blank. He was the last one; had not been found for ten years; and Thor had fantasized, in the dark hours of the night, that he was far away, and safe, and that they would never find him; while the restrictions grew ever tighter, foreign faces slowly filling up the spaces where trusted advisors had once sat, his decrees becoming ever more meaningless under the thrall of Thanos’s iron rule. He, as king, could do nothing without bringing ruination to what remained of Asgard and the Nine.

Then he was forced to his knees, spitting blood with blood under his broken nails, his voice, when he spoke, raspy and fractured as though he had been screaming. “So you’re one of Thanos’s lackey’s now. I have to say, I never thought you had it in you. Thought you’d die in the first wave, screaming freedom as they sawed off your army limb by limb.”

“So did I,” Thor answered numbly. He could afford to trade invectives, if that was what Loki wanted.

Loki laughed, a long, wild laugh that ended in a hacking cough that never seemed to end. Thor tried to hide his flinch as the guards shoved his face into the marble floor, the dull sound of spear-butts hitting flesh, bruising, and then the sudden crack of a heavy boot on his splayed fingers. Loki drew in a breath in a hiss of pain and was still; then he looked up, hair flying around his face lank and curling, and grinned a sharp smile that bared his teeth. “What now? I suppose my act is to be ended at last. Are you going to kill me yourself?”

The words that Thor meant to speak lodged in his throat and he looked at the light shining off the floor. Loki paused. “You are going to kill me…” he started, and one of the guards reached down and slapped him so hard his head wrenched to one side.

He breathed harshly for a moment, then spoke again. “Thor: you are going to kill me.” Thor could not tell by the sound if it was meant to be a question or a command; his hand tightened around Mjolnir’s haft as he opened his mouth, then met the dark eyes of the guards stationed throughout the room. He let go feeling empty, the revulsion of cowardice stinging at him despite his reasoning. His past self, he knew, would have done regardless: killed them all without thinking of the consequences: the fields that would be ravaged, the commoners killed and tortured in droves for his insubordination.

He drew a hand across his face and took a breath. He could not meet Loki’s eyes. “Take him away,” he said at last, staring at a mote of light dancing through the tall windows of the hall, and did not turn back at the sounds of Loki being dragged away, screams and curses filling the air; cursing him to the depths of Hel.

Thor left as soon as he was able; stepping into his rooms. It was foolish to think he was unobserved even here, but he let himself slump down onto his bed and put his head in his hands, crying without thought.

Days after that passed without hope: famines were growing more common, though the fighting had ended. The faces outside of the city were those of wraiths in human skin; dead-eyed and starving. The ornate robes Thor wore were edged with gold braid, the sleeves dragging his arm down more than the heaviest weapon ever had. Red robes: his own colors. The colors of kingship. A mockery.

Outside the Nine they still fought, he knew: the armies of Thanos against guerrilla bands scattered and ruthless with nothing to lose. Every mage they had enslaved to do his bidding, to kill in his service. He wondered when Loki would die, and how: pierced in the side, choking on his own vomit, fighting a war he had never chosen on a side he did not want.

The worlds turned.

And another messenger came. This one held high rank; a trusted subordinate of Thanos. His face, when he watched Thor, was amused, his smile curved and sharp. He had no reason to think so, and yet he did: there was some new cruelty in store for him. Thanos did love his little plays.

Two months later, the cruelty entered, svelte and soft; manicured nails and hair curling delicately around his neck, barely touching the top of the burnished collar resting against his skin. Robes of palest peach with a deep purple sash. Dark eyes met his own, the slightest hint of green amid muted skin. Thor’s breath caught; his fists clenched around the arms of the powerless golden throne, and he chocked out a reckless, furious demand. “What is the meaning of this.”

“A gift,” the reply came, equable, “A reward for your good service for the Prince of the Universe.”

His breaths were coming hot and short, the length of his vision narrowing to a red-filled tunnel of rage.

“A reward,” he said, words like ground stone.

And they watched him.

A reward.

“I have many talents, my liege,” came the soft voice; eyes watching him blank and empty, like wells into darkness where no water dwelled. The hands moved: illusions spun around them: a bird singing in a gilded cage, a dragon made of smoke.

“Of course,” Thor answered without hearing his words, as the shadow came to rest beside him near the edge of his throne, watching the dealings of the day silently: a body without a soul, a mind absented to some other place.

He followed as Thor left; followed him out of the hall and away, into Thor’s own rooms, and Thor stood for a moment gazing out of the window. Fearing to speak; fearing to turn; waiting for Loki’s biting tone to fill the air behind him. But there was nothing. And he turned, and saw before him the same dead-eyed being dressed like a tree in the spring.

“What have they done to you?” he asked at last, voice cracking.

“Nothing, my liege. It is my duty to serve you.”

“Loki,” he said, and then he could not go on.

The body moved forward; a hand was lain upon his arm. “Let me take your mind off all worries,” he said softly, breath warm against his ear. Thor stood unresisting as he pulled the tassels and robes from him to pool on the floor, hands moving down, steering him gently to the bed. Thor could not remember when he began to cry; only knew after; when the dark was entire and they lay together side by side, fingers entwined.

“It’s all right,” the voice was saying, Loki’s and yet not Loki’s. “It’s all right.”

**Author's Note:**

>   
> 


End file.
